


Damnum

by maelpereji



Series: Michael & Adam (Midam) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: midam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:49:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28010433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maelpereji/pseuds/maelpereji
Summary: Michael is screaming and Adam cannot breathe.
Relationships: Michael/Adam Milligan
Series: Michael & Adam (Midam) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051586
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Damnum

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little one-shot devoid of context or any kind of lead-up. It briefly explores what might happen to Adam if Michael ever gets forcibly ejected from his body, because- ... well, because I’m a cruel mum, that’s why! For all this fic is tagged as 'Midam', there is no shippy content to be found here (I have other works on the way that ARE shippy however!) on the surface of it. It is tagged as such due to it being written with a fully established relationship having been in mind at the time.

Distantly, from the back of his own mind, Adam is aware that he _knows_ what that sigil on the wall means. It’s written in blood - _fresh_ and _dripping_ \- but something about it looks _off_ to him, and judging by the way it brings Michael to a sudden _halt_ as he enters the room, his resident Archangel doesn’t like the look of it, either.

Adam recognises the Enochian, understands the symbols to speak of words that formulate the idea of _sending something away,_ but mostly, it hurts his eyes to try and look through the wall that parts his consciousness from Michael’s. But something about it _is_ wrong - and there is a soft, curling flame of Grace in his gut that Adam doesn’t like. Something off enough to make even Michael, usually so _careful_ to sever the link between his own gargantuan emotions and Adam’s, to fear **.**

“What is it?” Adam demands, _flinging_ the words at the Archangel in control of his body. “Michael, what does it-”

Adam watches, _helpless,_ as Michael’s, his, _their_ shared gaze, is stolen by the sudden apparition of a slender, female form that quite literally _appears,_ right beside the sigil.

 _“_ _Sister-”_

It’s all Michael manages to get out before a graceful, blooded hand comes down _hard_ upon the sigil, lighting it up into a terrific burst of gold-white light.

It’s _blinding._

Michael is _screaming_ and Adam cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot _be_ outside of the bright, blazing fury of what feels like a billion suns burning up inside of him, _shredding_ his nerves, his every _cell_ to pieces. It’s worse – so much worse than the agonies of the Cage, than _any_ amount of pain or numbness he ever experienced down there. He cannot make _sense_ of what’s happening, he is _losing his mind_ all over again, and-

-it stops.

Just like that.

The aftermath burns. Adam’s ears are ringing. He can’t _hear,_ he can’t _see,_ vision tunnelled and giving way to _blackness_ as he crumples to the floor – strange, to be detached from sensation, but to _know_ on some vague level that he is falling. His body meets the ground hard, but he doesn’t _feel_ the impact. He can think only _one_ thing clearly the second he finds his cheek pressed into cold, hard concrete.

_Michael._

Michael is _gone._ He is alone.

Adam had thought he _knew_ panic; the cold grip of terror, the floodgates that peel back, the sheer lack of control; a _maelstrom_ of utter confusion and pain but this-

 _-this_ is panic. This is true, lethal, unbridled terror in all of its unstoppable, breath stealing fury.

Michael is gone, and Adam is _alone_ in his own body for the first time in over one thousand years.

It _hurts._ It’s _agony._ There is no veil, no shield, nothing between _him_ and the outside world, no voice in his ear, no sweeping touch of Grace curling throughout his every cell, no-

-no. No. Not like this. Not like this. _Please._

Somehow, he inches a shaking, numb hand to his chest, _fists_ a hand into the fabric of his shirt - his heart should _not_ be working so hard, but neither should his lungs as he _gasps,_ breathless and unable to find a precipice of calm, of reasonable thought.

He is _alone._ Michael is _gone._ Michael is gone. _Michael is-_

The second he’s able, the second he has breath to spare, the only thing Adam _can_ do, is **scream.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos make my day.


End file.
